The Horsehead Nebule
by shoe-fu
Summary: While solving an art theft case Neal digs up old memories about his past, and finds out the truth about Kate. Slight AU. T for adult-ish themes.Nothing graphic.
1. The Best of Luck, Worst of Circumstances

**Authors Note: (PLEASE READ) **This story was completely mapped out after episode 1x07 'Freefall" aired. It has taken me this long smooth out all the kinks and add in all the little details I needed. Because of the time it took me to write the story, and I don't intend on changing it for the recent plot advances in the show, this fic is an AU. I have planned out each chapter, there are six, plus one interlude, and I plan on staying one chapter ahead of my updates.

**Warnings: **This story will contain dark themes, and lots of angst. There is a gay couple in this story, and I plan on there being a very slight Peter and Neil relationship (only if you look long enough though)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own White Collar, nor do I get any profit except enjoyment from writing this Fanfiction.

**And lastly**: Please review, positive or negative feedback are both encouraged, (although I'd take it as a kindness if you where polite with your negative feedback) and if your interested in being my Beta, please tell me. I've been looking for a Beta on this site but can't seem to find one, I know my grammar is just awful so please excuse it, I really have tried my best!

_**Without Further ado:**_

_**The Horse Head Nebula Chapter one: The Best of Luck in the Worst of Circumstances**_

"_I've been hoping for months_

_Hoping for years_

_Hoping I might forget_

_But it don't get much dumber, don't get much dumber_

_Than trying to forget a girl when you love her."_

_-Ok Go, Needing/Getting_

Neal awoke, like he normally did, to the brightness of the sun. He opened his eyes but made no movement to rise, instead he burrowed deeper under the covers. He had been sleeping a deep and peaceful sleep. The kind of sleep only freemen got to sleep. It was the fitful, and wondrous sleep of someone no longer caged. Something he was deprived of for nearly four years of his life.

The sleep he got in prison, wasn't really sleep. It was more like unconsciousness. Just because his body stopped moving, it didn't mean his mind did. So he would wake eight hours later feeling as if he had just closed his eyes.

The two experiences-waking up in a cage, and waking up in this posh apartment with a spectacular view-were so different from each other. But they did have one thing in common. The very first thing he thought about, even before he opened his eyes.

_Kate._

Even in his waking hours, while he was working on a case with Peter, she was still there. In the back of his mind like a ghost that haunted him. All the things that would have made her mad, the things she would have laughed at. Her wonderful, musical laugh. He noticed everything she liked, and everything she hated. He even smelt her perfume sometimes. Everything reminded him of her, and everything felt useless without her. It was pathetic really. He was pathetic.

He sighed and rolled out of bed. He went through the motions of getting ready for the day, using them as a distraction from depressing thoughts. He showered, and shaved and fixed his hair just right. He dressed slowly, taking extra care while buttoning his white shirt. He chose a blueish tie and jacket to match his pants. He put on a sliver tie clip and his favorite pair of shoes.

Neal liked wearing his designer tailored suits and polished shoes. They made him feel rich, respectable, and comfortable. There wasn't an armor thick enough to mimic the protection he felt when pulling on an Armani suit. It was certainly a welcomed improvement to a jumpsuit, a look which although he didn't look bad in, it wasn't necessarily flattering either.

As he finished buttoning the cuffs on his sleeve, his phone rang.

"Neal Caffery."

"I don't know why you bother saying your name. I'm the only one who calls you." Peter replied on the other end, but there was a smile in his voice.

"For your information, I was expecting a lady friend to call," he lied easily while arranging himself into a comfortable position on the couch.

"Sure you were," but Peter continued before Neal could protest against the sarcasm. "I got a new case for you. Art theft."

"Haven't we done that before?"

"Not like this we haven't. Have you ever heard of The Horsehead Nebula?"

"William James supposedly painted it for Julia Baker a few years back." Neal loved any chance to show off his knowledge of art, so he didn't mind letting his tone become a little matter-of-fact. "William himself always denied that the painting existed."

"Oh, It exists alright." Peter never misses a beat. "It's been stolen from the Baker's home in upstate New York. We're going to check out the crime scene now, want in?"

"A scandalous painting stolen from a beautiful film star?"

"I'll take that as a yes, be here in 15 okay?"

"Will do." but Peter had already hung up his end. Neal smiled and straightened his suit He only stopped to grab his hat from the table by the door, flipping it onto his head. A graceful gesture for an invisible audience.

Neal never let the irony of his situation escape him. Here he was, a con-man. A convicted criminal, working as a consultant for the FBI. And no, he wasn't scamming them, or trying to escape (for now) he was actually…

Enjoying himself.

It wasn't that he enjoyed wearing a tracking anklet or having to answer to 'the man'. In a way, he was still doing what he loved to do. Crime. Except this time around, instead of planning crime, he was solving it. The same thing from a different perspective. In a strange messed up sort a way, he was given a second chance. He was having the best of luck, in the worst of circumstances, and all he could think of to do was enjoy it, and try not to look back too long.

* * *

The Baker's house had a long winding driveway that ended at a gate. They were buzzed in by the butler after stating they where FBI. They drove up, around the decorative fountain, and parked outside the giant double doors.

It wasn't actually a house. It was a mansion, and it was breathtaking, not only in size but in beauty as well. The flower gardens themselves where a work of art, and the entire set up reminded Neal of MTV Cribs. He loved where he lived now, but he couldn't help imagining himself coming home to a house like this everyday. He didn't become an art forger for the great benefits-no, it was all about this. The money to buy things as beautiful as his (alleged) reproductions.

"I think your drooling." Peter said to Neal as they walked up the front steps- the butler already had the door open for them.

"I'm just appreciating the view. You have to admit, it's impressive."

Peter wrinkled his nose. "It's a little too flashy for me." Neal rolled his eyes. "One thing though," he stopped Neal when they where both standing at the threshold "I don't want any trouble, you understand? We had to deactivate your anklet, so no running off or what ever you might be planning." Neal feigned shock at the statement. "I mean it Neal." He said wagging his finger in Neal's face.

"Scout's honor."

"You were never a scout." Peter mumbled under his breath as he moved into the house.

"Hey," Neal said excitedly changing the subject, "do you think they have a pool?"

For a moment, Peter looked as if he would say something. Instead he just shook his head and pushed ahead of Neal and stepped inside.

It was just as beautiful on the inside as it was on the outside. A giant foyer greeted them, and to their left was a grand piano. There was a wide marble staircase leading to many doors on the open balcony several feet above them.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice." A women dressed in a white blouse and slacks said to them quickly. "I've just been devastated. To find one of my rarest paintings has been stolen, and then that Mr. Madison is suspected?" Her voice was sincere, but her posture and face was closed off. This was Julia Baker, star of a successful franchise of action movies entitled 'Dark Nebula' they weren't something that people watched for there great acting or intriguing plots, but rather the fact that Julia Baker wore skin tight cloths and beat the crap out of aliens. The women in front of him was dressed reasonably, looking very much like a mother, but she was still gorgeous.

Neal reached out his hand to her. "I'm Neal Caffery, FBI consultant," He gestured toward Peter before he could speak "and this is my colleague Peter Burke." Peter had a rather ungraceful moment where he stared at Neal open mouthed.

"What kind of consultant are you?"

"Oh, I deal in many trades." He replied with a suggestive smile that made Julia blush. Neal had always been a hopeless flirt. The only reason his relationship with Kate worked so well was because she found it extremely funny. It helped that she was also a hopeless flirt, which he found considerably less funny.

Peter shot an intense glare at Neal but walked forward to shake Mrs. Baker's hand. "What room was the painting stolen from?"

"This way." She turned and lead them around the grand piano, visibly trying to pull herself back together.

Sometimes, Neal couldn't believe Peter. They where currently in an amazing house with an even more amazing hostess and all he could think about was business? Mozzie was right; marriage really did ruin a man.

Julia lead them into a small sitting room adjacent to the dinning room. "It was right here." She said gesturing to the wall above an ornate wooden table. Neal looked at it carefully.

"You can't even see the outline where the painting was hanging."

"All my paintings are regularly taken down and cleaned. I have a rather large collection and they are all dear to me." She spoke rather stiffly as if offended by Neal's statement.

"Was the painting insured?" asked Peter, as Neal glanced around the other parts of the house he could see. There where indeed many paintings, most of them rare and like everything else in this house, all of them where beautiful. He smiled when he caught a glimpse of a pool through a sliding glass door.

"Of course," Julia said with a touch of defense in her voice. "Like I said, all my paintings are precious to me. This one was even more so. It was insured for as much it was worth at the time. Because of… recent events I was going to have it reprised on the 20th."

"The events your referring to is the death of William James?" Peter asked, again all business.

Pain crossed her face so quickly Neal could have imagined it. "Yes. He also, was dear to me."

"So he did paint The Horsehead Nebula for you?" Neal asked excited to lay some of these rumors to rest. Peter glared. If there was one Mr.-All-Business-FBI-Agent needed to learn it was that it took a lot more than a nasty look to keep Neal's mouth shut.

Julia sniffed. "As anyone who dug into the records would know, yes he did."

"And you have no proof of purchase?"

"I did not purchase it. It was a gift. I do though, have a document he signed. It was written up the first time I had the painting appraised. This was of course before he was denying it's existence. I also have a picture of the painting, my husband is upstairs trying to find them."

"Why would William deny that the painting existed ?" Neal asked looking carefully again at the wall. There where fingerprints right above where the painting would have been hanging.

"William is dead. We will never know." She didn't even try to hide the contempt in her voice that time.

Forensics was coming in now to test the area for evidence so they excused themselves.

"She seems uptight right?"

"Well you didn't have to ask her personal questions. We know the painting has been stolen, now we need to find out by who. It's not our jobs to get to the bottom of celebrity gossip."

Neal pouted for a moment, "Can't we do both?" Peter just shook his head and walked away. "Wait!" Neal said going after him. "Who are our suspects? Who's Mr. Madison. Oh!" He said excitedly stepping in front of Peter, "Was it the Butler? I've always wanted it to be the Butler."

"Charles Madison, is the Baker's head of security." Peter said pushing past Neal. "Him and the family where the only ones who knew the security code. What we need now is proof."

"Alibi?"

"At home with only his 16 year old son as a witness. We're working on getting the right to interview him without his dad present. Looks like Charles is giving him queues."

"This just became boring." Neal said with less enthusiasm than Peter thought possible. "Finding out who did it is the best part!"

"Well you can help me with interviews, those are fun too right?"

"Interviews?" Neal asked a little hopeful. He wouldn't mind interrogating Julia Baker some more.

"Cooks, gardeners, pool cleaner, three kids, and a husband. All people who have access to the house, and could have easily found out the code."

Neal frowned deeper. Greasy cooks and dirty gardeners did not sound as much fun as Julia Baker.

"How old are her daughters?"

* * *

It turned out that Julia's daughters where age 12 and 18, their only son was 17. It also turns out that interviewing staff is about as much fun as it sounds. None of them where even remotely interesting, or seemed like the kind of person capable of stealing a painting.

After the interviewing, Neal and Peter went back to Headquarters, where Neal was caught up on the facts of the case.

Between 2AM and 3AM there is no security footage. Because of the late hour, everyone in the house, and the daily staff members where asleep. This makes it hard to confirm alibis for pretty much everyone. To add even more to the list of subjects the Baker's where preparing for a party, so the day the painting was stolen there where caters, decorators and cleaners working in the house.

There is no record of a deletion in any of the security systems, and judging by how all the clocks where flashing 12:00, the power must have been cut from the entire house. Whoever did that just had to flip the breaker, but the breaker is clean. So clean that it had to have been wiped of prints. So why didn't the generators kick in? The generator, and the back-up generator where both broken. A clean cut to the wiring system, which from the looks of it was done weeks ago.

All of that essentially means it was premeditated, and done from the inside. And all things point toward Charles Madison. So much so it feels to Neal like he is being framed. An idea which Peter scoffed at.

"Sometimes things are exactly what they seem." A statement which Neal had always refused to believe with every fiber of his being.

"Mozzie," Neal said after calling twice in a row, "You always pick up your phone what's going on?"

"Eh--Nothing. Did you hear about The Horse-"

"-head Nebula? Working on that case right now actually."

"Wow they took out the big guns for this one." Neal knew Moz well enough to tell he wasn't being sincere by saying that.

"Yep and I need your help." Neal stretched, and placed his feet on the table, disturbing some papers that Peter was working on. "I need you to keep an eye out for the painting. Any code words or rumors you can get from any of your contacts."

"Come on? William James' death has been on the cover of every newspaper and tabloid for two weeks. The day after the police close their investigation on his death, the most controversial painting of his career gets stolen? Something like that would be kept quite. It's nearly impossible."

"Nearly!" said Neal jumping on to any hope he could find, "It may be possible?"

"I'm just not promising you anything." There was a brief pause, "Listen ,are you with Peter?"

Neal glanced over to Peter who was staring with his brow crinkled at some official, and very boring, looking document, "Yeah, why?"

"I gotta go. Lots of stuff needs to get done. Bye." His voice was rushed, distracted.

"Bye." Mozzie hung up abruptly then, leaving Neal to blink at his phone. He really didn't want to have to think about Mozzie growing distant from him. But the fact is he was. It was very apparent these past few days, he wasn't returning phone calls and he was hanging up abruptly. Neal couldn't help but feel like he had done something wrong. Mozzie had always been there, almost like a lifeline. He was a good connection, but more importantly he was a good friend, and that was something Neal had always been pathetically lacking. It was almost a relief when the phone in the office cut off his depressing spiral of thoughts.

"Who was that?" Neal asked as Peter hung up the phone and took his seat opposite of Neal.. "They released Charles Madison from custody. Wasn't enough evidence to hold him for more than a few hours, and we where pushing that anyway."

"So now what?" Neal wasn't ready to call it a day. This case was so frustrating because there was nothing to do. It was interesting yes, but at the moment there where hardly any leads to follow.

"We call it a day," Neal winced at that. "They found fingerprints near the painting, and we'll have the results by tomorrow morning. After that we interview Charles son, Terry."

"So we just…wait."

"Yep,"

Neal hated waiting.

* * *

Mozzie looked out the dusty window of his apartment and on to the streets below. Currently, he was faced with a moral dilemma. To understand this as a big deal, you must know that until five days ago, Mozzie didn't know he had any morals. Morals where for honest men, family men, _married men_, and he was proud to be none of those things. No, what Mozzie was, was scared. And that kind of pissed him off.

Knowing things, is never good. He was in a business where knowing got you into all sorts of trouble. Do what you have to get paid, if the sucker is dumb enough to give you money upfront, you run. There was no where to run now. No hiding place.

Peter had Kate.


	2. A World Apart

Author's Note: Thanks to all your lovely people who reviewed! Enjoy this chapter!

**Horse Head Nebula Chapter Two: A World Apart**

"_And your future is a machine_

_With the mechanics of a dream_

_And it's your mind that spins the wheel_

_And your heart that makes you feel."_

_Noah and The Whale, Jocasta._

Terry Madison was sitting in a FBI interrogation room. He was shocked by how much it looked like it did in the movies. The walls and floor where bare and grey, and he was sat at a plain table, in front of him was a pitcher of water and some stacked paper cups. Opposite him was two other folding chairs, like the one he was sitting on, and they looked ominously empty. Behind the chairs was one of those big two way mirrors. There were not words that could describe how incredibly uncomfortable that mirror made him. He saw himself in the mirror thin and pale, his large eyes stared back at him from his narrow face and five-finger forehead. His light ginger hair was unwashed and not brushed, and paired with his baggy clothes he looked like a starving hobo. Staring at the mirror he could only see himself, but behind the mirror where other people that could _see him._

He'd been waiting now, for at least 20 minutes. He suspected that this was some kind of interrogation technique - if they make him wait long enough then he'd be less on guard when they came to talk to him. The entire room was ominous, and he wondered if it was designed with the specific purpose to make the suspect nervous. It was working. He fidgeted and squirmed in his seat, tapping his silver ring against the metal table making a satisfying metallic sound.

After another five minutes or so, the door to the room opened, and two men walked in. They where both dressed in suits, and the shorter one seemed to be a little annoyed, while the taller man, (who Terry couldn't help but noticing was very attractive) was wearing a charming smile. They sat down in the empty chairs, and Terry felt a little bit better not to be alone anymore. The attractive man flipped off his hat and set it on the table in front of him.

"Terry, I'm Peter Burke, and this is FBI consultant Neal Caffery. We'd like to ask you some questions."

* * *

"I don't understand," said Terry, tapping a ring he had on his middle finger of his right hand on the table. "I talked to some agents yesterday with my dad."

"We know," said Peter in a stiff tone that made Neal roll his eyes, "we just need to clarify some information."

"Okay. Like what?" He sat up a little straighter, and gave a confident smirk.

"You were at the Baker's house the day the painting was stolen?" Neal took over the questioning for now. Peter had practically begged him to go with him to the interrogation. Apparently Peter's fear of talking to kids extended to teenagers too.

"Yeah. I was with their son -- Jeremy."

"You know Jeremy well?" Neal asked.

Terry's body became stiffer, and when he spoke tone was a defensive. "Well enough." His ring still kept that steady rhythm on the table, it was the only sign that the kid was nervous. When Neal looked a little closer he could see that set deep in the ring where three tiny diamonds. Compared to the rest of the boy's disheveled state, it was very out of place.

"Did you notice anything unusual the day you were there?"

"Well, this weekend there's suppose to be some catillion party at their house so there were lots of decorators, and cleaners going in and out that day." He shrugged nonchalantly, "I guess it's not that unusual though, they have huge parties there almost every weekend." Terry finally stopped his tapping and folded his hands in front of him.

That made Neal cringe. The staff and the family were one thing, but now they had to worry about tons of party guests? This case might as well be unsolvable.

"After you left you--"

"Like I said before, and several times afterward, I went home with my dad and watched the first three Indiana Jones movies on AMC." His voice was patient, and he gave a little smile. "Inner office communications must really suck." He joked with a carefree laugh.

Peter gave a little scowl, and that's when Neal decided that he liked this kid.

"And after you guys went to bed, neither you or your dad left the house?"

"Nope. Not until some of your lovely federal agent friends knocked on our door first thing in the morning."

Neal reached over suddenly for one of the stacked cups, and Terry's reaction was insinuations. He pulled his hands away from the table and stood, pushing the chair into the wall behind him, it happened so fast it was as if he'd been electrocuted. Peter half stood, ready for anything, while Neal held up his hands in a sort of surrender.

"Easy, I was just getting myself water," Neal said pouring some into a glass, as Peter settled back into his chair.

Terry, who's posture had turned defensive quickly dissolved into embarrassment. "S-sorry." he stammered pulling his chair into position at the table.

"Alright," Peter said leaning forward suddenly looking suspicions. "Let's go over this again."

* * *

"Was it really necessary," Neal began as their food was placed in front of them, "To ask him the same questions for an hour?"

"That's the point of interrogation," Peter replied smiling his thanks to the waitress. "ask the same things trying to find different answers."

"That sounds startlingly close to the definition of insanity." Peter gave Neal a wary smile as he bit into his burger. They where eating outside, the table they sat at had red table cloths and blue napkins. A clash of colors that assaulted, and insulted, Neal's eyes. The sun was shining brightly, and he liked the way it lit up Peter's face. "You interviewed Terry's dad again before I came in this morning right?"

"Charles Madison? Yeah, why?"

"What was he like?" He poked at his salad with his fork, thoroughly adopting a look of indifference.

"Cranky, defensive, short. I've met a hundred guys just like him." Peter shrugged. "Why?" He repeated.

Neal hesitated, "It's just… didn't Terry seem a little jumpy to you?"

Peter looked up from his plate, to look directly as Neal. "We're tracking down a painting Neal. We're not solving family issues."

Neal went silent then. Moving his food around his plate, looking very much like a sulking child. "He reminds you of yourself." Peter said bluntly causing Neal to stop his salad prodding. "He reminded me of you too." Neal didn't say anything again, he seemed to be lost in thought. "Look, I know your dad--"

"You don't know anything about my dad." Neal snapped. And it might have been the most venom Peter had ever heard in his voice.

"Neal," Peter said gently, dusting the crumbs off his hands. "I chased you for seven years. Seven years I even put you before my own wife. Trust me when I say there isn't anything I don't know about you." A breeze came through and ruffled Neal's hair, skewing his normally perfectly styled look. Before he could speak again, Peter's cell phone went off.

"Alright-Yes-Thanks." He hung up the phone without saying goodbye, and fished in his pocket for his wallet.

"Who was that?" Neal asked still looking sulky.

"Fingerprints came back as Gregory Hoffman's."

"The butler?" Neal asked, his spirits significantly lifted.

"The butler." Peter confirmed with a small smile.

* * *

Neal was staring at a picture of a breathtaking painting. He wished he was staring at it in person instead of through a silky Polaroid. It was a scenery picture on a large canvas, painted with vibrant watercolors.

The grass was a bright green and looked as if wind was ruffling it to the east. At the left of the painting was a ominous tree, the only real way to describe it is 'Godot looking' Sitting in the center of this vast and vibrant field was a couple, silhouetted and leaning in close to each other. In the air above them, was the Horsehead Nebula.

1500 light years from earth, the Horsehead Nebula is classified as a 'dark nebula.' From the vantage point of Earth, it looks as if it's shaped like a Horse's head (hence the name.) The clarity in the painting was startling, and even through the Polaroid Neal could see the incredible detail of the whole thing. The nebula was painted with dark reds, black, and blues. The stars stood out against it's velvet background like holes to heaven. The contrast between the sky and the grass should be insulting but instead it was hypnotizing. You could stare into the painting, and somehow it seemed to never end.

In her book, The Ship That Sang, Anne McCaffery used the Horsehead Nebula as a metaphor for awe-inspiring achievement. And Neal could see why. If he could, he would make a run for the Horsehead Nebula and never leave. He envied the couple sitting together on the grass; they were painted their very own private sanctuary- a world away from the rest. If he could, he'd take Kate there and they'd-

_Kate._

Neal sighed, and set down the Polaroid, rubbing his eyes. Lots of old memories returned to the surface of his mind today, and all they did was remind him how _powerless _he was-is. He hated it. He was helpless through his whole childhood, and he promised himself he'd never let himself be so weak again. For years he was free, and he felt as if he'd never be caught. He pulled off one amazing feat after another. Hell, he'd run to the Horsehead Nebula and back over and over, living to boast about it the next day.

In prison, he had no control. Life was a machine in there. Even your bowl movements where on a schedule. When he looked back on it, it seemed almost like a dream. A very long, monotonous dream.

The only thing that had kept him from breaking out was the possibility of getting caught again. After nearly four years, when Kate came to see him for that last time... He risked it all. If he had just waited those last few months, he would have been free man. He could have laid low for a while, and in a few short weeks, with some very hard work, he would have had something close to the life he was forced to leave behind.

But it would have been without Kate. What was the point of having that life, if she wasn't in it? He would have traded all his treasures for a life with her. He still would, if he thought that would make any difference. She was worth more than any bond or piece of art he had stashed away, worth more than Washington's Love Letters or Salvador Dali's Persistence Of Time. She was what made his life brighter, even behind bars. Picturing himself without her made him somehow feel hollow. So he went after her, quick as he could. One last run.

But it didn't make a difference. He had tried to take control over the situation and it had slipped through his fingers. Kate was gone, and he had no idea how to get her back, no idea if she was even safe. The sheer determination he felt almost overpowered the sense of helplessness he felt. He tried to push the latter down, but all it did was pop back up again, like an old and nasty habit.

It would be so easy to give up, and conform to this life he had been given. So easy to except that maybe Mozzie was right, maybe Kate didn't want to be found. After all, he had this nice cushy lifestyle to fall back on. A roof over his head, designer suits and polished shoes, silk bed sheets and Italian roasts. An amazing job that was not only challenging, but fun as hell.

So easy. If he could just let her go.

Something inside of him twisted at the thought. He ran a hand nervously through his hair, and leaned back into the chair. Let her go and then what? Become a FED, leave behind this life of crime, pretend she never existed? He was worth so little without her, and she was worth too much to be forgotten.

He would find her. He had to hold onto that, because he needed to find her. He was all but sick without her. And when he did, the man with the ring will be the powerless one. And once he has her he'll run again, and together, they'll paint their own sanctuary- a world apart from the rest.


End file.
